


to the end

by dedkake



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Fix-It, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3834940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedkake/pseuds/dedkake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles helps Erik clean up after the beach.  Or, Charles tries to figure out what trust lies between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the end

**Author's Note:**

> Let's just handwave how everything was fixed. I feel really attached to this fic for some reason and I almost don't want to let it go. It's been mostly finished for almost a year, but I haven't gotten up the courage to finish and post it until now. I was trying to get this up to Treat Myself, but as always, I was just slightly late.

There’s so much to do back at the mansion—Sean and Angel have serious injuries, Moira is advising him on a meeting that’s already been scheduled for the next day, there are Shaw’s mutants to see to, and no one seems to have thought to put anything out for dinner. Charles barely has a moment to realize that his head feels like it’s being crushed, but the flurry of activity is good, because whenever Charles manages to think about what happened on the beach, he feels sick to his stomach.

He’s killed a man.

Anger turns hot in his mind—anger at Erik, at Shaw, at _himself_. No matter how many times he tries to justify it, the fact remains. Sebastian Shaw is dead—he’s dead because Charles had held him still for Erik’s revenge. Charles had told Erik not to do it, but he hadn’t stopped him. He’d let him go into the submarine alone and he’d let him murder Shaw while the man was defenseless. He’d done for it Erik—because Erik had been so convinced that it was the only way to move on.

And now Erik is no where to be found. He’d disappeared as soon as everyone was safely into the mansion, not even bothering to check on the injured or even make sure that they were safe from Shaw’s lackeys. His mind had been seething, a spiraling, hot mess in the CIA jet back from Cuba, a different anger than his vengeful thoughts, and Charles had not pushed him, had been too tired—is still too tired. But when Raven asks after Erik over a turkey sandwich, Charles finds himself pushing away from the table, tracking Erik’s mind in the mansion.

The aspirin must be kicking in because when Charles finally makes it to the quiet upstairs, he feels numb. The anger is still there, but it feels cold now, distant and removed, like it’s leftover from a dream. Except the dreams he’d had last night in Erik’s bed had been anything but angry.

Inside Erik’s room, Charles can hear the sink running from outside the adjoining bathroom, but he stops in the doorway, unable to move forward. Erik is standing over the sink, bent close to the mirror with a pair of tweezers in his hand. Charles’ eyes fall to the blood on the counter, dotting the wet marble pink where it drips off of Erik’s chin.

He’s seen blood on the counters in the mansion his whole life and for one helpless moment he’s six again, watching his mother dab numbly at a split lip, not realizing that Charles himself will need to learn the skill to clean his own wounds in the solitary silence of his bathroom.

Erik growls in frustration, the sound choked and weak in his throat, and slams the tweezers down on the counter. He hasn’t noticed Charles yet and Charles can do nothing but watch as Erik presses his forehead to the mirror, his fingers curling tightly on the lip of the sink. There’s blood on the mirror now, only visible as Erik begins to turn his head side-to-side, muttering something so softly that Charles would need to reach into his mind to understand it. He doesn’t. He won’t. Not for Erik’s sake, but for his own.

Because Erik is trembling, shaking in his bathroom—because he’s upset and not satisfied like he thought he would be—because he’s here and not out trying to find Charles—because he’s the one acting broken after what he’s just made Charles do.

Anger turns Charles’ stomach and for a moment he thinks he might hit Erik. The pain Erik is in can’t possibly be enough. It’s a harsh, sickeningly comforting idea, the image of Erik’s hurt and surprise that Charles imagines, one that he’s entirely unfamiliar with. Charles’ fingers clench into fists, ready to strike, shaking nearly as much as Erik’s shoulders, but Erik finally looks up, his eyes locking on Charles in the mirror.

Everything freezes—Erik’s trembling, Charles’ thoughts—as they watch each others’ reflections. And slowly Charles’ anger evaporates, leaving behind an aching exhaustion.

“I can help you with that,” Charles says, gesturing to Erik’s forehead. His arm is too heavy and he wants nothing more than to sleep for the next ten years.

Erik closes his eyes, turning his face away against the mirror. “I’m fine,” he says, his voice somehow small. His shoulders are still tense.

Charles can’t hold back his scoff. “Of course you’re not,” he says, finally crossing into the room. “None of us are.”

There’s a flicker in Erik’s mind, concern too bright to be ignored, but he doesn’t look back up.

Sighing, Charles flips the lid of the toilet down, grabs a washcloth from the pile on the counter, and drops to his knees to rummage under the sink for some hydrogen peroxide, a staple of the Xavier household kept in every bathroom.

“Sit down,” he says, waving vaguely at the toilet. He does not look at Erik, focusing on his search under the sink.

When he stands again, the small bottle in his hand, he’s almost surprised to find that Erik has followed his directions, sitting on the lid of the toilet and staring distantly at the towel rack. Erik is not one to follow orders and after today, Charles doubts even _his_ control over Erik. He’s ready for a fight, despite the exhaustion, so Erik’s easy capitulation leaves him feeling more than a little strung out.

He tries to ignore it, focusing instead on wetting the washcloth in the sink where the water’s run cold.

“I’m going to need you to look up,” he says, standing over Erik, tweezers in one hand, washcloth in the other.

Erik lets out a low sigh and turns his face up, avoiding Charles’ gaze in favor of staring vaguely at the ceiling.

There’s glass embedded in Erik’s forehead—a lot of it—and Charles bites back the desire to search Erik’s memory for what had happened in the void on the submarine. He doesn’t even think about asking.

Most of the wounds have scabbed over already, and the ones that Erik has already pried open are bleeding sluggishly. As carefully as he can, Charles sets to work, quickly abandoning the washcloth so that he can hold Erik’s head steady with a free hand.

The silence is tense while Charles works, moving slowly down from Erik’s hairline to his eyebrow. He feels blank, like there’s nothing left in him, certainly not enough to make conversation with. Erik’s mind is stirring, right there under his fingers, but Charles can’t bring himself to push, not with the rotten taste of the helmet still burning at the back of his mind. And of course Erik doesn’t push, doesn’t try to start a conversation.

Erik is perfectly docile under Charles’ hands, shifting his head wherever Charles nudges, his jaw clenching tight against pain, but his eyebrows remaining still. His fingers are tight enough on his thighs that Charles worries the zippers on the jumpsuit will be ruined.

When Charles thinks he’s pulled the last piece of glass, he dabs at the blood on Erik’s forehead with the washcloth again, leaning close to inspect his work. He’s gentle, worried that he might’ve missed something. As much as he wanted to hurt Erik earlier, he doesn’t want Erik to be in pain. Not ever.

It dawns on him slowly as he stares down at Erik’s tense face, much more slowly than it should, that he’s willing to murder to keep Erik from pain. He _has_ murdered someone to protect Erik.

He feels sick.

“There,” Charles says, almost snaps, dropping the tweezers onto the counter and pushing himself away from Erik to wash his hands in the sink. He’s shaking now, his hands unsteady on the bar of soap.

Erik doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything, and Charles allows himself to breathe. 

Fifteen minutes with Erik under his hands and Charles is still angry. Erik is alive and here, but his mind feels different, slippery with uncertainty and sour with fear and Charles can’t stand it. Erik isn’t supposed to feel those things, can’t be here wallowing in self-pity with the children scared and injured a floor below him—with Charles right here, seething. But Charles can’t think of where to begin a conversation. So he doesn’t.

He soaks a clean washcloth with the hydrogen peroxide and hands it over to Erik.

“Here,” he murmurs, pushing away from the counter to the bathtub. “You’ll need to do that again once you’ve showered.”

Turning on the water, Charles tries not to think about the time in New York when he and Erik had shared a shower in their hotel and Erik had nearly broken every pipe in the building. He doesn’t want to think about the past, when things had been simpler. He wants to walk away, to escape to his own quiet, empty room with its dust and memories.

“Good night, Erik,” Charles breathes as he walks to the door, sure that Erik won’t hear him over the sound of the shower. It doesn’t matter—is in fact better—because Charles isn’t sure that he can actually face Erik now.

But the door shuts in Charles’ face when he reaches for it, the noise sharp and decisive. Taking a deep breath, Charles reaches out for the door handle anyway, hoping that Erik will let him leave if he just refuses to acknowledge him.

“Charles,” Erik says, his voice rough and close to Charles’ ear.

Charles lets go of the door handle, his hand falling back to his side. He feels defeated, all at once, and he turns to face Erik in the slowly rising steam of the room.

“What?” he asks. He means for it to be short, annoyed, but it comes out as a sigh instead.

Erik is looking at him now, finally looking at him, holding his gaze with eyes that are somehow just as hard and determined as they are tired and pleading. “Thank you,” he says, enunciating the two syllables carefully.

“Of course,” Charles says, deliberately ignoring the fact that Erik wants him to look deeper, to read what he can’t say. That wouldn’t actually make it easier on either of them, despite what Erik may think of Charles’ abilities.

His eyes sweeping swiftly around Charles’ face, Erik steps forward, catching Charles in a kiss that is slow and hesitant, a shadow of what he had done this morning after they’d pulled on Hank’s suits.

Charles pushes back, biting into Erik’s mouth, letting his hands clench tight around the sides of Erik’s face. He pours all of his frustration, his desperation, into the kiss, but keeps it tightly locked in his own mind. Erik doesn’t get to know.

Finally, when he feels Erik’s hands creeping up his back, Charles shoves away, pushing Erik back a few steps. He refuses to let the look of confusion on Erik’s face get to him.

“You made me kill a man today,” Charles says. His voice is quiet to his ears, but he can see how Erik’s eyes harden at the words and knows that he hasn’t been drowned out by the shower. “I asked you not to—I told you I didn’t want to be part of his murder, but you decided for me.”

Erik draws in a breath, his shoulders rising, but Charles takes a step forward and continues before Erik can speak. “I told you it wouldn’t help you and I don’t even think I have to make a comment on that now.”

“Charles,” Erik tries, taking a step back, his hands up at his chest defensively.

“Let me finish,” Charles grinds out, taking another step forward, not letting Erik escape. “You said it wasn’t about trust and I believe you. You trusted me to keep him there, to let you do what you wanted. And I did. And I’m glad that I did.”

Erik’s eyes snap to Charles’ face, bright with confusion and something like hope.

“I’m so glad that you’re alive, Erik,” Charles says, his voice catching as his heart stutters in his chest. He can feel tears at the corners of his eyes at the memories of Erik disappearing into the void and again into the helmet.

Taking another step forward, right into Erik’s space, Charles reaches for Erik’s face again, careful of the cuts and bruises this time. Taking a breath, he says, “So I know you trust me to follow you—but can you trust me enough to follow _me_?”

Erik’s jaw clenches and he looks away, but only briefly. Tipping his head forward so his forehead rests against Charles’, Erik sighs. “I don’t know,” he says, his breath warm on Charles’ lips. “I don’t know what to do now.”

Charles closes his eyes and reaches out with a tentative wave of comfort. He doesn’t know what he expected, but he can’t find it in himself to be disappointed by Erik’s answer. “Can you at least trust me enough to stay?”

It takes Erik a moment to gather his thoughts, his fingers tight on Charles’ hips and his mind turning too quickly for Charles to monitor without pushing, but he finally manages to say, “I’d like to try.”

Unable to say anything over the pounding of his heart, Charles wraps his arms around Erik more securely, burying his face in Erik’s neck. It might not be a complete answer, but Charles finds he can't begrudge Erik's uncertainty. This is new territory for them both and for now, it is enough.

Their suits are a pain to get out of and the shower is cold, but when Charles wakes in the morning, Erik is still there, still breathing.

“Thank you,” he says, his nose tucked against the hollow of Erik’s throat.


End file.
